


buried memory

by allusive



Series: pokeglobal 3 [4]
Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon - All Media Types, Pokemon Duel (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, Gun Fight, Implied/Referenced Torture, Joe is kind of a sadist, PFG, Torture, knife fight, pokemon figure game
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-22
Updated: 2020-07-22
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:28:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25442422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allusive/pseuds/allusive
Summary: 99% sure nobody will read this but posting it anyways to archive itA glimpse into the man that joe once was..... And why he's not that man anymore.
Series: pokeglobal 3 [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1852948
Kudos: 1





	buried memory

“What’s  _ wrong?”  _ He laughs, grin widening on his face in glee as he moves a figure forward. With a spin of the move wheel, his opponent's fate is sealed— his Aipom makes it to the goal with ease, and the challenger he’d just been facing makes a face so _ wonderfully _ full of fear that he can’t help but continue grinning. “Aww, looks like lil ol’ youse  _ lost _ our little deal.” He coos, in mock pity.

It had been quite the boring game. While who wins in PFG is sometimes determined by luck and the value of your figures, Joe feels absolutely no threat at all, even when using his weaker ones— your moves directly reflect your mental state, and watching the other player desperately fumbling in an attempt to win despite all the shortcomings of their figures is barely enough to get him excited. He rarely indulged himself in games such as this one, games with something on the line for the both of them. He’d expected  _ more _ , from someone so desperate— but alas.

“As promised,” He continues, before pulling out a pocket knife from his pants pocket, flipping it open grandly and spinning it in his hand. He throws it to his other before stabbing it right into the board in front of the two of them as he looks up at the challenger, head tilted, face suddenly serious— it’s an expression rarely seen on his face, and the other player swallows, realizing exactly what he wants. “Yer fingers.”

The challenger swallows, and hesitates— Joe doesn’t hesitate when given the chance. He grabs their wrist, slamming it down on the table, and before they can even react he takes the knife by it’s hilt, swinging it downwards like a paper trimmer down onto the middle joint of their index finger, the crunch of bone as the knife slices through the flesh loud and sickening. They scream  _ deliciously,  _ and struggle— but Joe’s men hold them down, the side of the challenger’s head pressed against the table and forced to watch. 

“I should take all o’ yer fingers fer that boring ass game youse just made me play.” He scoffs, holding the knife loosely in his hand. He points it at them accusingly, shaking it. “I said if youse won, I’d get rid of yer debt, so why didn’t youse try just a liiittle harder? I coulda beat youse in my godsdamned sleep.” When he doesn’t receive a response besides a sob, he rolls his eyes. “Oh, please. Ya knew what youse were gettin’ yerself into when youse borrowed money from me. From the Rogers.” He continues, quickly stabbing the knife down again to cleanly chop their pinky finger off. While they scream in pain, it’s not as satisfying as it  _ should _ be.  _ I shouldn’t have sharpened the knife so much _ , He thinks, a bored sigh escaping his throat. 

He swings down again, but the knife that they expect to take another finger plunges into the grain of the wooden table instead. The blood on the sharpened metal pools at the intersection of wood, and they choke out another sob despite there not being any pain, this time. “Take ‘em away.” He turns, tilting his neck to stare coldly at them. Moving his eyes up to his bodyguards, he sighs. “Get the family. Any means possible to get the money.”

“NO!” They shout, as they’re dragged away. “ _ How could you be so cruel?” _

He wonders why himself for a moment as he glances at their fear-stricken features— but he realizes he doesn't  _ care. _ “Are youse an idiot?” He laughs in response— it’s a question so stupid that he doesn’t even want to grace it with an answer, but he’s feeling especially generous today, especially with that delicious expression that he’d been treated to. “I’m a fuckin’ mafia member! Did youse seriously think that I’d be nice, or  _ forgivin’,  _ or anythin’ like that? Have youse forgotten what they call me?" He pauses for a brief moment, as if to let them answer him, but he doesn't receive a response— it's a rhetorical question, anyway. "If yer family can't scrape the money together, I'm gonna rip youse to pieces. Don't youse know how much a human liver can cost? Youse can repay us with yer body." 

With another laugh he turns, the door closing behind the guards as they remove the other from the premises. Joe glances to the blood beginning to stain the table, sighing as he pockets both the figures and his knife before kicking it over. "Replace this table." He says to the staff who quickly take it away. Pulling a white sleeve up to check an expensive looking watch, he finds that it's 2:49pm, the match finishing just in time for his meeting with Don Roger at 3.

When he waltzes into the meeting room, both Don Roger and Brenda are both already seated— Brenda scoffs and checks her own watch, before shooting a glare at Joe. "You're late." She says, as always. 

"Am not. It ain't even 3pm yet." Joe responds nonchalantly, removing his hat and placing it on the table before he sits on the chair to the right of Don Roger. Every meeting begins like this— if he was lucky she'd shut up after that, but unfortunately for him, Brenda seems to be in a bad mood. "Still," Brenda continues, voice grating to his ears. "You should get here 15 minutes early."

"Why the hell would I do that? The meetin's at 3pm, so it's good enough I arrive before 3pm." 

"Well—" 

"Enough." Don Roger says, his voice deep and loud. "We're here to discuss finances and movement plans for the next month." He continues, starting the meeting off immediately. He's never one to waste any time, getting to the heart of the matter completely. He submits his reports as usual, and Don Roger praises him for a job well done before moving on to the jobs (He smiles smugly at Brenda, who rolls her eyes at him). Joe's next assignment is to establish relations with an opposing mafia by securing a deal on trade— easy enough. He's done enough work to know that it'll go off without much prodding in his end, the other mafia being much smaller— they'd have no choice but to accept whatever offer he'd place down, if they wanted anything. As the meeting ends, Don Roger cranes his head towards Joe as he and Brenda are both leaving. "Do not mess this up."

"Youse got it, boss."

* * *

"Five million." He smiles, twirling a dagger in his hand idly. He's not wasting any time with negotiation— it's always been his specialty, and he's especially confident in this one, slouching in his chair.. "That's the best we can offer."

"That's," The man in front of him looks almost offended that he’d offer so low, but his expression changes to mask his initial reaction very quickly— but Joe’s already seen it. Even the slightest twitch of the brow doesn’t go unnoticed by him, and he continues his cold stare. “That’s a bit low, wouldn’t you think, sir?” The man continues, smiling as if he has any say in the negotiation— it’s barely a negotiation at this point, more like a still offer. A mafia as influential as the Rogers barely even needs to lift a finger to secure deals, but Joe likes to  _ play _ a little with potential business partners, if only to test their mettle. 

“Whaddya mean, pal? That’s plenty generous.” He laughs, throwing the dagger up in the air and catching it. He can feel the air around them tense as the other man thinks it over. The room they’re in is barely lit, the meeting place being an abandoned warehouse equal parts dark and creepy. A single table with shitty folding chairs is set up in the middle of the dusty space, crates of mystery items surrounding them. Bodyguards are stationed outside, close enough to come inside to protect their boss while far enough so negotiations are private. Joe takes note of the small windows on the ceiling “Five mil. Best offer I can give ya. The boss wanted to give youse even less, y’know? I’m bein’ nice, here.” 

“..We will consider it.” The man says after a few minutes. “I have to speak to my colleagues and boss about it first.” 

“Take all the time youse need, pal.” Joe begins, whistling a bit before he throws the dagger in the air once more, quickly catching it in his right hand before hurling it right towards the other man. It flies past his face, wedging itself in the wall behind, spearing a cutiefly through its wings to it’s final resting place against the grain. “ That’s what I’d like to say, but the offer’s good fer two weeks. Better think it over real fast.” 

With that, he stands, the shitty folding chair collapsing with his slight movement. “Next time, pick a better meeting place. I’m almost insulted by this setup! If I weren’t such a nice guy, I’d kill ya for wasting my time.” With not much else except a mocking smile, he turns, leaving the man alone in the room.

The next few days are quiet. He knows he’s not going to receive a response until the next week at the earliest. With a time limit of two weeks it's like a game of chicken— but he already knows that they're going to cave and call him in the middle of the second week. Perhaps they'd try to negotiate more, as a last ditch effort, maybe they'd protest. He looks forward to that— giving in without a fight is so  _ boring.  _

In the meantime, he busies himself with PFG. There's a semi-large tournament coming up, and Joe's in it to win. As he's putting together his team composition for each round, he gets the phone call— a week earlier than he'd expected. “Heya!” He answers it, chipper. “Joe here. What can I do for ya?”

"Six million." The voice on the other end says. "We'll do it for six." Joe’s face immediately changes from grinning to a tired grimace as he rolls his eyes, sighing. "Youse just wanna waste my goddamn time, don't youse?" He barks into the phone immediately, tone of voice immediately growing hostile. “Youse got some fuckin’ nerve, tryin’ to raise the price when youse arranged the meeting in some mildew-rotted room with chairs that might as well be made of toothpicks.” He makes a ‘tch’ noise with his tongue before continuing. “Use yer goddamn brain and then try calling again, pal. This is strike fuckin’ two.” He finishes, before he hangs up, putting the phone back down. Perhaps he was too rude, but he  _ really _ doesn’t care despite how important this deal seems to be to Don Roger— a tiny baby mafia like theirs had no sway over him. Returning to his figures, he groans again as his phone’s ring

“Fine.” The voice says. “Same meeting place as last time, a week from today. 9pm.” 

“Good to see youse ain’t an idiot.” Joe retorts, his free hand moving to play with a Wobbuffet figure. “If I wasn’t so nice, I’d reduce the price to 3 million just fer that waste of my time. I expect a formal apology when we meet up.” 

“Yes, sir.” The voice says, before Joe hangs up. 

In the week that passes, Joe wins the tournament. It’s a bit disappointing, if he’s being honest— he’d expected more of a fight from some of the competitors. Sure, he’d spent some time mocking his opponents every turn before he’d beat them, but any opponent who’s nerve falters from his half-baked insults isn’t worth facing anyways. He throws the trophy to his secretary, who puts it in the cabinet with the others. He’s been accused of cheating and dirty tactics so many times that his only response now is the Roger family’s motto— Win ugly, lose pretty. It doesn’t bother him too much, his trophies speaking for themselves. There’s no evidence of him cheating, because it doesn’t exist. Anybody who accuses him of doing such things without proof is just fodder, weaklings who need an excuse as to why they can’t beat him. After he takes care of the business, he’d like to battle Don Roger again. 

When the day finally comes to seal the deal, Joe arrives at 9pm exactly. He’s wearing his usual outfit, white suit and striped shirt— it’s themed after the Roger family, the trio of himself, Brenda, and Don Roger donning white on top of black pinstriped shirts, each of them having their own touch to the uniform. He’s added his signature hat on top of the outfit— and he’s currently wearing it as he enters the dingy warehouse once more, one of his bodyguards holding the briefcase of money behind him. 

“Youse got the stuff?” Joe asks, posture slouched and unworried, tilting to the side to size up the man in front of him. “Yes.” He replies, holding his own briefcase up. Joe doesn’t say anything, only tilting his head towards his other bodyguard to take it and check the contents. 

“Can I ask you a question?” The man says, as Joe’s not looking at him. “Were you not scared that we’d back out of the deal?” He asks, without waiting for an answer. “No.” Joe answers immediately, yawning. “No offense, pal— but youse didn’t have a choice, really. Both youse and I know that. Ya just had some bad luck.” 

“I see.” He responds, before he reaches behind his back. Joe immediately reaches for the knife holster on his leg, hand on the handle of a dagger. The man pulls out a gun— from the looks of it, it’s a standard issued pistol. He aims, but Joe dodges to the right as the gun fires, the bullet instead hitting his bodyguard behind him (who doesn't react as fast as Joe does) in the chest. He quickly unsheathes the knife, flipping it in his hand before he charges, moving behind before the man can react and slits his throat. “A fucking set-up, huh?” He growls as the corpse in his hands crumples to the floor and drops the gun. His head moves around to survey the rest of the room as he picks up the fallen gun. The knife that he’d thrown the week before is still there, and in the reflection of the blade he sees someone standing, moving, behind the boxes scattered around. “Come out. I can see youse.”

As soon as the words leave his mouth three more men reveal themselves, knocking over the boxes as they appear. They have larger guns, but Joe quickly and almost expertly takes one out before rolling to the side and throwing the knife in his other hand to take out a second. The third fires, missing spectacularly as Joe rolls to the side and ducks behind a pile of crates. He glances out briefly to see his bodyguards on the ground, presumably dead. “God fucking—” He swears, checking the pistol over quickly before poking his head out and firing at the last man’s head four times. His shots are less accurate this time, two hitting the wall, but the other two hit, the last man finally dropping to the ground.

He sighs, rotating his head around slightly to crack his neck. It’s been a while since he’s had to kill anyone— it’s not something he particularly enjoys, despite being a bit sadistic in nature. He prefers dragging things out, and letting someone else finish the job. It’s not  _ fun _ , ending people’s lives so easily, when they haven’t suffered enough. He walks over to the man with the knife in his face, stepping on his neck (it’s not as if he can feel it; he’s already dead) to prevent his head from moving too much as he pulls the knife out of him. Flipping it again in his hand as he slides it back in the holster, he grabs the unopened briefcases and begins walking to the door of the warehouse. He wonders if Don Roger’ll be pissed at him for messing the deal up, but the entire thing was a set up anyway— he can’t punish him for that when he’s got both the money  _ and _ the promised items.

“...Fuck.” He says as soon as he exits— there’s at least 30 more men, all dressed in black. Dropping the cases and putting his hands up, he surrenders. He knows there’s no beating 30 men who most likely have guns all on his own, especially when he only has knives. Before he can say anything else, his vision suddenly goes black right after he feels someone hit the back of his neck.

When he awakens, the room is dark. No, it’s not the room— he can feel a blindfold on his head, wrapped tightly enough that it won’t come off no matter how hard he shakes his head. “Shit.” He mutters, trying to move. From what he can feel, he can tell that his hands are tied to the arms of the chair, tied in a way that splays his fingers out. His legs are tied in a similar way, to the legs of the chair. In an attempt to escape he tries to pull his leg up and shift his hips to try and tip the chair, but his entire leg is tied in a way that stops him from moving, and the chair is firmly rooted on the floor.

“You’re finally awake.” He hears. It’s an unfamiliar voice— he remembers most of the voices he’s heard, able to tell intentions from just the inflection of words. He’s unsure of this person’s intentions, however— not being able to see their body language hampers his natural ability to negotiate.

“Youse gonna kill me?” Joe asks, only a slight hint of nervousness in his voice. “Youse won’t get any information outta me, youse know. I’d rather die than tell youse anythin’.” A chuckle from the other, and Joe can feel the sweat beading on his forehead already, under his hair. "Oh, no. You seem to think that we want something from you other than your screams." With that, they grab his index fingers nail with some type of tweezer, ripping it out excruciatingly slowly. Joe grits his teeth, grimacing at the pain. He's been through many fights and he's not unused to pain, but torture is something he's never experienced before, taking or giving— It's always been more of Brenda's thing, really. 

He makes a hissing noise as it's finally ripped from the bed, the tender exposed skin already aching from being exposed to the cold air of the room. "Why-" He starts, as he feels a second nail being grabbed. "Why are youse doing this?" 

"Punishment." Is all he gets as a reply. 

The next few hours are excruciating, the person torturing him taking their sweet time with pulling all of his nails out, only taking breaks to prod at the bloody skin underneath each nail. Joe tries his best to keep his reactions to a minimum, but the pain and ache of his fingers fills his eyes with involuntary tears. Thankfully the blindfold absorbs it, keeping him from the humiliation of crying. Just when he thinks things are done, they begin to break his fingers, one by one, in the same sadistic manner as when they'd removed his nails. 

Joe can barely contain the sounds he's forcing down because of the pain, and when he finally lets out a noise it's taken as encouragement for even crueler methods— it's got to have been hours by the time that he's finally given a break. He's already lost all of his nails, and his fingers are all broken. 

He's foolish to think it ends there— he stays in that chair, being force fed water and some kind of disgustingly moldy pastry every other day. He's lost track of time by the second day, the blindfold never taken off of his eyes. There's not even a moment of reprieve, even when he passes out from the pain he's doused with a bucket of ice cold water to force him awake. The person torturing him changes every few hours, like they're determined to break him from the pain— and it's working. He'd always thought that his pain threshold was good, but the amount of blood he's losing, the hunger and thirst he feels constantly (they only give him enough to make him want more) and the fact that he's barely able to sleep (when they let him) makes him begin wishing he were dead. 

When he thinks they've exhausted all the options, and they're finally going to kill him, he starts getting his back whipped. It's not as bad as some of the pain that he's already experienced in this, but it's still painful enough to elicit a reaction from him. He's already been broken a long time ago, his cries unmuffled and what tears he can even spare streaming down his face as he begs for it to stop— his throat is already raw and aching from screaming, but it doesn't. 

It's another week (not that he can tell) before he hears the commotion of fighting, before the blindfold is finally removed and he sees Don Roger's face in front of him (he assumes its him— he can barely see, his vision is too blurred), as he's lifted in his arms. Joe can't even speak, battered and bruised,  _ exhausted  _ from everything. 

"It's okay, Joe." He says, as Joe's eyes close. "I'm taking you back home, now." The most he can offer in response is a choked sob as he leans his head against his savior's shoulder, unable to say anything. 

* * *

"Are you sure, sir?" 

"Yes. Joe's been acting up too much lately."

"We'll torture him for two weeks then, as promised. Did you want to have your men 'save' him?" 

"No. I'll do it personally. Then he'll be the most loyal to me, afterwards. Even better if he becomes much more obedient. Do your worst, but make sure he stays alive."

"Yes sir."


End file.
